


This To Me Is How To Leave Matters Unresolved

by vain_glorious



Series: Matters Unresolved [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Illnesses, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vain_glorious/pseuds/vain_glorious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheppard becomes ill while returning from a mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This To Me Is How To Leave Matters Unresolved

P3M-634 started out as a boring, standard mission and ended locked out of database, in part because of how that mission had gone and in part because there were far too many people on Atlantis who wanted to send a nuclear bomb through and knew how to build one.

The Alvani were like the Pegasus version of corporate sharks, except instead of power suits they wore long brown togas cinched by leather belts. Once they realized that Teyla was the one doing the talking, they completely ignored the rest of the team. McKay felt slighted, but it meant that he couldn’t interfere with intense conversation Teyla was engaged in, and in Sheppard’s book that was a good thing.

“The Alvani are notorious,” Teyla had said before they left Atlantis, pausing with a frown. “for striking a hard bargain,” she had finished, diplomatically. “They want all trade relations to be to their advantage.”

Sheppard watched with a curious eye:  The Alvani elders were crouched on the ground in a circle around Teyla. Periodically, someone would move a pile of small, multicolored stones towards her. Sometimes, she moved it back with a polite but firm rejecting headshake. Other times, she counted out the stones and put some back, or left the offer as it stood. They talked and moved these stones for nearly two hours. Sheppard couldn’t hear the conversation, but he could see Teyla’s face get tighter and less patient. He wondered how her legs felt after squatting for so long.

Ronon and Rodney, fortunately, were nowhere near the negotiation table…er, ground. They’d found the buffet table – also on the ground –  and occupied themselves. Sheppard watched them, occasionally, since if the Alvani were tetchy about getting their fair share, he wasn’t sure how they’d like being eaten out of house and home.

Eventually, Ronon had his fill and wandered over to Sheppard, swinging his large frame down on to the bench. His hands were stained with the red juices of the small, purple berries that had filled a large ceramic bowl among the other offerings. The bowl was empty, now, and Ronon was pushing the last berry into his mouth, the juice dripping down his chin. He looked like he’d just murdered and eaten someone.

“Are they done yet?” Ronon asked, pointing at Teyla with his chin.

Sheppard shook his head and watched the juice spill down Ronon’s neck. Wordlessly, he picked up a cloth from the bench top and put it into the big man’s hand. Ronon blinked at it, and Sheppard guided his hand up towards his face.

“You look like you just ripped someone’s throat out,” he said.

“And didn’t share,” Rodney said, hotly, arriving at the bench and dropping his weight heavily.

Ronon wiped at his face, and Sheppard thought the cloth was probably covering a pleased smirk.

“They’re citrus,” Ronon said, but his cheek jerked upwards.

“No, they aren’t.” Rodney said. “He punched me, Sheppard, over a berry!”

“Wasn’t a punch,” Ronon said, dropping the rag in a ball on the bench surface.

“It hurt,” Rodney snapped. “I hope you get sick off those Pegasus galaxy raspberries, and throw up all over the Jumper.”

“That’ll punish you,” Ronon pointed out.

“And me,” Sheppard said, sharply. “There will be no throwing up and there will be no punching McKay for stealing your food.”

“Who said anything about stealing?” demanded Rodney, and he was probably going to say a lot more even louder, except that Teyla was finally rising and moving towards the bench, followed by the Alvani elders. Sheppard elbowed him in the side and he snapped his jaw shut.

“Colonel,” Teyla said. “Our negotiations are concluded. But the elders require that you confirm the terms, as the leader and the,” she smiled grimly, “senior male of the delegation.”

“Oh.” Sheppard had no clue what the terms were. Elizabeth wanted crops and Rodney wanted some super special minerals he’d talked about at length during the ride over. There were antibiotics and seedlings packaged up for exchange. “Well, let’s hear it.”

Teyla recited the conditions, the tone of her voice clearly communicating which were acceptable and which were not. She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes, waiting for him to catch on.

“Okay,” Sheppard said. “That all sounds good, except for that last bit, where you keep 50% of the harvest, that’s a no-go.”

“Twenty-five percent would be acceptable, would it not?” Prompted Teyla.

“Yeah,” Sheppard said, cheerfully. “That sounds good.”

Behind Teyla, the Alvani frowned and grumbled to one another.

“That’s our final offer,” Sheppard said, quickly. “Take it or leave it.”

“We accept,” said a gravel-voiced, grey bearded Alvani, still frowning.

“Good.” Sheppard grinned widely. “Let’s exchange presents and get out of here, shall we?”

“Yes,” mumbled Ronon, boredom etched on his face.

Rodney toddled off to collect his precious mineral specimens, while Ronon and Sheppard moved the crates of supplies out of the rear of the Jumper and some younger Alvani males arrived with the bartered goods. Teyla stayed behind to politely conclude the meeting. When she finally arrived at the Jumper, the Alvani with the beard was behind her.

“The Alvani elders wish to ritually part,” she told Sheppard. “They must bid you farewell, according to their customs.”

“Okay,” Sheppard said, casting an eye at the grim faced old man. He stuck out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“It has not been,” countered the Alvani. “In the future we wish to find you friendlier and more generous. Next time your people must send more pleasant envoys.”

But his hand, wrinkled and cold, closed tightly around Sheppard’s own and squeezed hard.

“You’re welcome,” Sheppard said, anyway. The Alvani let go of his palm, inclined his head, and immediately turned around. He walked away, his gait stiff with age, without another word. “Well, wasn’t he nice?” Sheppard remarked to Teyla.

“No,” said Teyla, completely missing the sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. “He made negotiations unpleasant and unnecessarily lengthy. The Alvani are not generous but expect all their trading partners to be so. It is bothersome.”

 “Good grip for an old guy, though,” Sheppard said, flexing his hand. The center of his palm stung.

“Can we go?” Ronon yelled from the front of Jumper.

 Five minutes later, all Sheppard could think about were the berries Ronon had eaten and Rodney’s childish prediction that’d he puke. It wasn’t Ronon, though, but Sheppard, who vomited in the Jumper cockpit. The only warning was a sudden wave of nausea, accompanied by pain cracking against his skull, as the watery ‘Gate horizon loomed before the ship. 

Rodney must have taken over piloting, but Sheppard didn’t see it. He was vaguely aware of falling from his seat, eyes clenched shut and his arms wrapped helplessly around his head as he tasted bile.

It was unrelenting; his gut rebelled, clenching in time to the waves of pressure in his temples. He could hear the voices of his team, alarmed and shouting. But their words were indistinct and muffled by his own pulse, throbbing increasingly loudly in his ears. Sheppard opened his eyes for a second, in time to see the familiar leather stitching of Ronon’s pants pressed into his cheek. Dark, red-stained palms were holding either side of his face, and then Sheppard actually felt his heartbeat pitter erratically, and he passed out in Ronon’s lap.

He woke up in the infirmary, long enough to throw up again, but nothing was in his stomach and it made his lips burn. Keller rolled him on to his side, anyway, and he remembered doing this in college when his roommates were drunk so they wouldn’t choke.

Then the headache came back and the doctor might have been trying to talk to him, but he had his eyes shut again and the world spun away.

It went on like that. He woke up, occasionally, usually when he was being touched. It was a nurse or Keller or one of the other doctors. The head ache kicked in within seconds of being conscious, and then he would be gone again. Each time he woke, there were more medical machines around the bed, more tubing and wires attached to his body. Last time, there was a thick plastic tube in his mouth, and a respirator wheezing at the bedside.

He reached out with a hand and a wrist full of IV leads, trying to grab Keller. She leaned over him, her lips moving. The cracking in his head blocked out her voice, and there was only helpless, stabbing frustration as the world went black.

The next time, there was something cool and metal against his face. It moved smoothly down his cheek, skimming against his skin. The sensation was nice – it was nice to feel anything – and Sheppard turned his face into it. Immediately, it stopped feeling nice and became all about slicing, burning pain. Blood was pouring down his cheek, dripping onto his neck. He could taste a bit in the corner of his mouth.

Somebody was yelling and he could hear frantic movement nearby. What he couldn’t do, was open his eyes or move his arms or legs. Or speak, but at least he remembered that he’d been intubated before, and that wasn’t as terrifying. Everything else was, but it was also beneath a heavy, deadened weight that made it all feel slightly distant.

Hands pressed against his face, increasing the stinging on his cheek. He tried to jerk away and more hands held his head still. Finally, fingers pressed near his eyelids, scrabbling to pry something sticky up off his skin. He could open one eye, and then the other, as white filmy tape was peeled away.  
  
Keller’s face, blindingly brightly lit, appeared in his line of vision. He slammed his eyes shut, immediately, expecting the crippling pain in his head to resume any second. He would be gone again, and it would hurt so much.

But then he heard her voice, the first time she’d been able to get out words before it started all over again.

“Sheppard, stay with me. Are you here? Naito, push 10 more milligrams.”

He only opened one eye, the rest of him tensed for the pain to hit.

“Okay,” Keller said, and she gave a giant, worried smile. “Hi there, Colonel.”

He felt his lips move, pointlessly around the breathing apparatus between them. He opened both eyes, squinting into the bright room. The infirmary, one of the private long-term stay rooms in the back.

Keller looked sharply over her shoulder. “Step back, Ronon. I’m sorry, but not now. Naito, get him out of here.”

Sheppard blinked and peered down the bed. His arms and legs were each in soft restraints, and there was a band around his torso. In his peripheral vision, someone small and pale was trying to force someone large and dark to leave the room. The big person wasn’t budging and the little person finally stepped back, throwing blurry arms up in surrender. He squinted; the big person was Ronon. He would have grinned, but there was medical tape around his mouth, and his lips felt cracked and dry.  

The bed dipped slightly and Keller was shining a penlight in his eyes. He followed it, obediently, then did the same with her index finger.  She still had one hand pressed against his jawbone.

“Colonel,” Keller said. “You’ve been in the infirmary for three months, since your mission to P3M-634. This is the first time you’ve been conscious for more than a few seconds.”

Sheppard could agree with only that last part; he couldn’t wrap his mind around having been out of commission for three months. It couldn’t have been that long.

“You’re intubated because of repeated respiratory distress,” Keller said. “I can take it out, but it might have to go right back in.”

He lifted a hand and waved it at the end of an arm still pinned to the bed. _Go for it._ If it came to that, he probably wasn’t going to be awake to experience it.

It didn’t come out immediately. There was lots of activity – more medical staff came in, adjusting the machines, staring at read outs. Somebody bandaged up the cut on his cheek. Someone else – who he was going to kiss when he got better – smeared Vaseline across his parched, peeling lips. His hands were released, and he tried to move them around. His arms felt heavy and weak, but he was able to get one hand up to his face. A little patting located another plastic hose in one nostril, taped in place. It had to be a feeding tube. Sheppard was beginning to understand that this was a lot worse than a bad headache.

The activity around his bed cleared a little as Keller began setting up to extubate him. Ronon took the opportunity to slink over and settle right by his elbow, on the other side of the bed out of Keller’s way. Sheppard tried to grin at him, but he wasn’t sure his mouth did anything recognizable.  He raised the arm nearest Ronon and tried to give him a manly high-five. His hand didn’t really cooperate and it turned into a pathetic little squeeze. Ronon eyebrows jumped curiously, but he kept hold of Sheppard’s hand.

“Sorry I cut you,” Ronon said, pointing at Sheppard’s cheek. “You moved.”

_What?_ He must have made a face because Ronon dipped his hand out of view briefly and then held up a long, thin metal tool. He flipped it open and a long blade that looked like a straight-razor appeared. It was pink-tinged and Ronon abruptly wiped it off on his own pant leg. “Sorry,” he said, again. Ronon didn’t sound particularly sorry, he kind of sounded like Sheppard shouldn’t have moved. This was actually sort of calming, since if anything were really wrong with him, Ronon wouldn’t be messing with him.

Unsure how he was supposed to feel about Ronon taking it upon himself to shave him while he was in a coma, Sheppard decided once he could talk he’d tell Ronon about the wonders of the safety razor – or even better, the mach-5 – and leave it at that.

Keller interrupted then, looming over him and taking hold of his jaw with a steel grip. More tape was peeled up and the tube in his mouth jostled as she took hold of it.

“On the count of three,” Keller said, “I want you to take a deep breath and blow out, okay?”

She was holding his neck such that he couldn’t really nod his assent, and then she was counting, anyway. He didn’t think exhaling as she pulled the hard, unyielding plastic out of his throat actually helped. It felt like he was choking and even though it passed his lips, he couldn’t stop coughing as his body tried to dislodge what was no longer there. He gagged a little, realized he was still holding – now squeezing – Ronon’s hand. Keller cranked the bed up, gave him a tiny paper cup of water and a basin.

“Spit,” she said, and he obeyed. Ronon took the opportunity to step back, which meant this whole procedure was as disgusting to witness as to experience. A nurse moved into to wipe his mouth.

“Wha…wha…what.” Sheppard tried to find his voice. It sounded hoarse and weak to his own ears, and Keller leaned closer to hear him. “What’s wrong with me, Doc?”

She put one hand lightly on his head. “I really wish I knew, sir.”

A trail of nurses came through, each armed with a needle and wanting his blood. Another doctor came over with a scanner and did basically the same thing, running it from his pinky toe and on up. Keller confessed she had no idea why he awake, which was really incredibly creepy to hear.

She rattled of the list of symptoms he’d been experiencing, mostly in medical gibberish. The headaches were apparently followed by coma, seizures, heartbeat irregularities, dangerous spikes and drops in blood pressure, respiratory distress, compromised airways, and unpredictable breakouts of rashes and hives.

“Eww,” Sheppard said. “What gives?”

Ronon moved back to his bedside when the doctor with the scanner got out of the way. “You’re awake now,” he said. “He’s better, right, Doc?”

“Maybe,” Keller said. She looked faintly hopeful. “Anything you want to add, Colonel?”

“Headaches,” he said. “Migraines. And then I pass out.” He didn’t exactly mind missing out on the other stuff, though.

“I want you to tell me if you feel one coming on,” Keller said, making a note on his chart.

“It usually happens pretty fast,” he warned her.

“I’ll keep the vent ready to go,” Keller said. One of the other doctors called her name and she took a step away. “I’ll be right here.”

“You really feel okay?” asked Ronon, still perched on the side of the bed.

“Not sure I’d go that far,” Sheppard muttered, unless exhausted, kind of drugged, and full of plastic tubes counted as okay. “I miss anything interesting the past three months?”

“The ‘Gate broke,” Ronon said. “Well, that was yesterday.”

“Yeah?” Nice to know crappy things happened even when he wasn’t around to enjoy them.

“Teyla’s stuck offworld,” Ronon added. “McKay’s trying to fix the ‘Gate. I told him you’re awake.” He gestured at his earpiece. “But he just yelled at me.”

“Good to see nothing’s changed,” Sheppard said. His throat itched and he coughed. “Can I have some water? Being intubated sucks.”

Ronon reached for the paper cup still sitting on the medical tray. “Yeah.” He looked intently at Sheppard. “You don’t look so good.”

It happened more slowly this time. A wave of nausea, growing pressure against his sinuses. One of the monitoring devices starting beeping loudly behind Sheppard’s head.

“Shit,” he managed to say. “Get Keller.” It came out as a really sad whimper, but Ronon heard him.

“Keller!” Ronon bellowed, not moving from Sheppard’s bedside. The headache was back, not the little one but it’s very angry mother. Sheppard’s hands squeezed the blankets. He tried to keep his eyes open, tried to _stay_ just a little longer. The last thing he saw was Ronon’s totally freaked face, and then he went willingly into the darkness.

 

 ~

The cycle continued as it had before. It was maybe a little less scary now, since he knew that he’d wake up again every time the pain drowned him out. More frustrating, since he never managed to stay conscious, either. His life had become flashes of IV’s, syringes, and invasive medical procedure. It felt like every time, Keller’s face was darker and more serious. She always tried to speak to him and he could never hear her. It _sucked._

The next time Sheppard woke up, he wasn’t in the infirmary. There was natural light, humidity in the air, and he couldn’t feel the city. He was surrounded by beige fabric walls. For a few short seconds he was never going to mention to anyone, Sheppard had thoughts about death, an afterlife, and wondered just which God he might have seriously pissed off.

But then he looked down, and everything else was exactly the same. He was on a gurney, strapped down with soft restraints. There was an IV in his arm, and two more plastic tubes disappearing under the sheet draped over him. One was a catheter, the other was taped to his abdomen. The ventilator was back, and there was a cluster of medical machines surrounding him. But he wasn’t in the infirmary, he wasn’t even on Atlantis, and it felt like he was outdoors.

The same vague, heavy sensation of sedation weighed him down, and for a few seconds he was just really confused. Then he realized his left hand was wrapped around an earth-style call button and after a little bit of fumbling he managed to depress the sensor.

Keller arrived instantly, literally running into the room.

“Hey,” she said, and for once she smiled. “He’s awake,” she said, turning her head to speak into the headset.

Quickly, she undid the straps on his hands, simultaneously checking the pulse in his wrist even as she peered at the heart monitor.

“Good to have you back with us,” she said.

It was hard to lift his hands, as it had been before. He raised one hand to his face, so uncoordinated he nearly jabbed a finger in his own eye. His face was stubbly and he immediately planned on asking Ronon why he’d slacked off. Sheppard felt the ventilator taped to his mouth, and Keller apologetically shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “If we have to put you back on a vent, I’d have to do a tracheostomy. You won’t like it, so I’d rather not do it unless absolutely necessary.”

She read the question on his face. “Cut a hole in your throat, sir.” She launched into a complicated explanation of why, something to do with irritated tissues. He had trouble following and didn’t really care. He rubbed his throat with one hand while she continued.

“You won’t be able to talk,” she said, “so we came up with something so you can communicate. Rodney wanted you to know it was his idea.

She produced a laptop from a nearby chair and set on the half-table that could swing over the gurney. Her movements were fast and it took a lot of energy to focus on her. Sheppard didn’t mean to, but he let his eyes drift shut while she went about opening and turning on the computer.

“Shit,” he heard her whisper. “Are you still here?” She tapped him on the shoulder, and he opened his eyes again.

Falling asleep almost naturally, without feeling that his head was going to explode, was something he hadn’t done in recent memory. He tried to smile around the vent, but he didn’t think she saw it.

“You scared me,” she said, peering worriedly at him. “Please try to stay with me.”

He felt really sleepy, which was a vast improvement over almost everything else. He tried to nod, forcing himself to focus on her and the computer screen now blinking before him. Keller lifted his arm for him, resting it on the table top.

“If you try to type something,” she said, “the computer will try to guess what you’re saying and fill in the word so you won’t have to write whole sentences.”

Immediately, Sheppard moved his finger to the W, and the laptop screen filled with the words ‘what’, ‘where’ and ‘who’. He moused over to the second word. _Where?_

“Oh, right,” Keller said. “You’re on the mainland. Actually, as far from Atlantis as we could get without putting you on a raft in the ocean.”

Sheppard hit the W key again. _Why?_

“We’re testing a theory that your condition is dependent upon your proximity to the Stargate.”

Well, that sounded absolutely nuts. The W key got another strike. _What?_

“Proximity and use,” Keller continued. “My staff observations correlated the frequency of your seizures and arrhythmia with the ‘Gate being in use. It was the only variable that seemed to have any influence on you. Teyla did a little, um, investigating and found a couple of legends about the Alvani making their trading partners really sick when they thought they’d been cheated. I haven’t made any other sense of it, but your vitals have gone crazy, corresponding with ‘Gate activity.”

Sheppard hit the I key. He was vaguely amused when rather than the personal pronoun, the first option was actually what was on his mind. _Insane._

“Corellation isn’t causation,” Keller continued. “Rodney was the one that suggested it, actually. You woke up after the ‘Gate had been deactivated for almost 36 hours, because it was offline. As soon as Rodney fixed it and tried to come see you in the infirmary, you were back to being tachycardic and unconscious.”

Carefully, Sheppard searched for other letters, ‘til the computer screen flashed something closer to a sentence. _Allergic to the Stargate?_

“Um, that’s one way to look at the hypothesis,” Keller said, slowly. “We’re running an experiment. We moved you as far from the ‘Gate as possible, and it’s been deactivated for –” she checked her watch – “just over 24 hours.” She gave him a considering look. “You woke up and stabilized faster than when you were in the infirmary and the ‘Gate was off. That suggests there is something to proximity.”

Sheppard found the C key. _Crazy._  It was considerate of Rodney to understand his first response.

“Maybe,” Keller agreed. She sat down on the stool by Sheppard’s bed. “Believe me, if I had any other options besides moving my critical patient to a tent outside and sitting around hoping he’d get better on his own, I’d have taken it. You haven’t responded to anything else.”

He focused on the key word in there. C was for crazy and for cookies, and why the hell would Rodney think he wanted cookies at this particular moment. Finally, the proper word came up. _Critical?_

“Occasionally,” Keller said, her voice staying cool and worried. “Coma is a response to severe trauma, sir. Your heart’s been under a lot of strain. I’ve given you dangerous levels of narcotics trying to stop seizures, regulate your blood pressure, and stabilize your pulse. You haven’t just been napping.”

For a moment, Sheppard couldn’t think of anything to say. Then he went for the letter T, through Teyla and Try. He wasn’t surprised that it took forever to find the word; it wasn’t very frequent in Rodney’s vocabulary. _Thanks._

Keller patted him. “Don’t thank me,” she said. “I might kill you, yet.”

Sheppard thought of a new question. _How long?_

“It’s been about 5 months since this all started,” Keller said. “It took a while to set these conditions up. Closing down the ‘Gate like this is hard to do without trapping a team off world or pissing off one of our allies.”

Sheppard repeated the same question. _How long?_

“5 months,” Keller said again. “Oh, wait, you mean how long did we shut down the ‘Gate for?”

_Yes._

“Weir gave me three days,” she said. “The Daedalus arrives on Friday to take you home. I wanted to have something to tell the Doctors at the SGC.”

For a moment, Sheppard froze. He was being sent back to Earth.

“I know,” Keller said, looking down at him. “Rodney threw a tantrum on your behalf, if it makes you feel any beter.” It kind of did. Rodney was good at those. “You got like this in the Pegasus Galaxy, it doesn’t make much sense to send you to the Milky Way to get cured.” She shrugged. “But if my theory’s right, being here might be why you’re so sick.”

Sheppard found a few more keys. This was way more tiring and demanding than it should have been. _When Friday?_

“Tomorrow.” She didn’t pause long enough for him to type anything in response. He didn’t know if Rodney would have programmed ‘shit’ into the computer, anyway. “I want to talk to you about your condition, colonel. I don’t know the doctors going with you on the Daedalus, and I want you to understand what’s happened, okay?”

Sheppard tried to pay attention. It was hard. And everything Keller was saying was some form of awful. He was allergic to the Stargate. He was being shipped out of Atlantis. The medical stuff was worse. The thing in his nose was gone because they’d put a feeding tube directly into his stomach. The threat to trache the ventilator was real, since his throat was so irritated from being intubated.

Keller stayed with him for the next few hours. She’d brought only two nurses to this strange little campsite, and they came in periodically to draw his blood or check various readings. He fell asleep a couple of times, only to wake because Keller would immediately put a hand to his throat to feel his pulse.

“I’m sorry,” she said, after the last time. “The machines will tell me if something goes wrong.”

Sheppard didn’t need the machines. He felt it, roaring pain in his head picking up like a tidal wave. He tried to reach for the computer, ending up knocking it from the table and smashing it on the floor. Keller was over him, easily pinning his arms back in the soft restraints while the machines wailed. She cupped one hand to her earpiece, staring at him with huge, wet eyes.

“Lorne’s team is coming in hot,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

And then he was gone.

~

He never got to say goodbye. Not to Atlantis, not to anyone on it.

The doctors on Daedalus did exactly what Keller had warned, and the next time Sheppard woke up his mouth was dry and empty while the ventilator puffed directly into his neck. The chief medical officer was a guy, Dr. David O’Donovan, who wasn’t nearly as pretty as Keller. He didn’t have a computer set up for Sheppard to communicate, and he didn’t talk at length about the whole ‘deathly allergic to the Stargate’ diagnosis.

Instead he talked about recovery from coma, about regaining respiratory independence, about physical therapy, about rebuilding muscle mass loss.

He also said they wouldn’t be doing any of that on board the Daedalus because it wasn’t equipped and that would be the treatment plan when they got Sheppard to the Naval Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland.

The only thing Sheppard liked about the man was that he decided Sheppard shouldn’t have to endure or remember two weeks in hyperspace on a gurney, and jabbed a needle into his IV-line that knocked him out cold.

~

Sheppard knew immediately that Keller had been right. Various doctors – well, actually it was generally the same ones since only six in the whole hospital had the security clearance to be told the whole story – stood over his bedside and espoused thousands of other possibilities. He could have cancer, an auto-immune disorder, epilepsy, multi-organ failure, or some kind of combo with fries and a drink. They all sucked, but they were other possibilities.

Except that he was getting better. The doctors were visibly disappointed. Evidently they’d been expecting some phenomenally mysterious alien disease and a patient that would ultimately end up in the pathology labs. Instead they had a very weak, very medicated dude whose only risk of expiring was if he managed to pull his respirator out and strangle himself with it. (It was a joke that the poor respiratory therapist didn’t appreciate, at all.)

He had a respiratory therapist, now. Thus far she hadn’t done anything besides describe all the invasive oxygen-producing machines they were going to hook him up to while they gradually weaned him into breathing on his own. There was also a physical therapist, who for now was just kind of rearranging him in bed.

Sheppard still felt like crap. It wasn’t intense or painful, just a generalized sense of exhaustion and weakness. He was, he suspected, severely overmedicated. They were gradually reducing dosages of pretty much everything, waiting for a relapse on any front. Or waiting for any kind of challenge. His main doctor said most of Sheppard’s remaining symptoms were side affects from the medications and from being confined to bed for so long.

Five months later, they’d cured everything but what he wanted the most. He was still in the hospital, mostly because the Air Force had expected that he’d be dead at this point and hadn’t bothered to set up any other arrangements. Sheppard didn’t really mind. He’d made friends with the nurses and scored the freshest dinners and best desserts. Being inside the hospital meant he didn’t have to deal with being back in the world – the real world, the world of Earth – and no longer being on Atlantis.

He hadn’t thought about the city or its people in months. He was busy relearning how to breathe and walk on his own, and then putting back muscle on his emaciated frame. Very, very busy.

A couple of times he’d gone outside of the hospital. His physical therapist said he needed fresh air – his psychologist said he needed to see that he was home. Sheppard disagreed with both of them, because the air outside the hospital was choked with pollution and crowded with suburban sprawl and Maryland had never been his home. He was a little surprised how used he was to open, empty spaces and how weird it was not see water. In an attempt to cooperate with both doctors (the shrink was actually kind of cute), he gave a real effort to obey. He tried to go for regular runs. It made him think about his daily runs with Ronon, though. That made him run faster, until he overdid it and twisted up his knee. Then, he tried not to think about anything and it nearly got him hit by a car. After that, he went back to the gym track and lied happily about just how much fresh air he was getting.

His ability to ignore the Stargate program was compromised when one of its architects came to see him. Up to now, no one had contacted him except the basic Air Force offices locating its service members. He’d been placed on some out-of-commission list, probably shafted towards the future honorable discharge list. There should be a bunch more confidentiality documents to sign, and that’d be it.

“Heard you were up and around,” General Jack O’Neill said, having made himself comfortable in the plastic chair by Sheppard’s bed.

He must have arrived while Sheppard was at the gym. The general wasn’t in uniform, just jeans and a leather jacket. It was kind of weird, since most brass put on their dress blues to step inside hospitals with active-duty military patients. Sheppard wasn’t sure if he should be put-out. 

“Sir,” he said, anyway, and half-heartedly tried to snap to attention. It was stupid, since he was in sweats and sneakers.

O’Neill gave him a wave to stand down. “You’re much less dead than I was told to expect.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I think.”

“I stole your lunch,” O’Neill said, then, pointing at the empty tray Sheppard hadn’t even noticed sitting on the swing-table. “There was jello, I did what I had to do.”

“Okay,” Sheppard said. And people had the nerve to call him weird. He wished O’Neill hadn’t taken the only seat in the room. The only people who talked to him from that chair were doctors telling him he wasn’t better yet. Grudgingly, he dropped down on to the edge of the bed, anyway. “What brings you here, sir?”

“Oh,” O’Neill said. “Closing old accounts, I guess.” He grimaced, and looked back at the empty tray.

“I figured,” Sheppard said.

“They took you to the SGC before you got here,” O’Neill said. “I don’t know you if you knew that.”

Sheppard hadn’t. “Why?” he asked.

“See what happened if they put you next to the ‘Gate,” O’Neill said. “I didn’t really buy that some Pegasus farmers could do that to you.”

“What happened?” Sheppard asked.

“I got yelled at for a very, very long time by every doctor on base, all the doctors on the Daedalus, and also all the doctors with clearance once you got here.”

“Oh?”

“You were very polite, though, with the silently nearly dying. I like that about you.”

“Thanks for trying,” Sheppard said, genuinely. He probably would have asked to try it, too.

O’Neill nodded his head. “Yeah.”

Silenced reigned for a few awkward seconds. Then, O’Neill reached into his jacket packet and produced a tiny silver digital camcorder. He slid it on to the plastic tabletop towards Sheppard. “I thought you might want to send a message back on the next data burst. I know you weren’t in a condition to say many goodbyes.”

Sheppard immediately shoved the camera back towards O’Neill. “You can just let ‘em know I’m up and around. You know, not dead.”

The general paused for a second, but he took the camera back and put it away without comment. There were some things Sheppard did like about the man. “Okay then,” he said, reaching down a pulling a black briefcase into view. “Down to business.” He cracked open the case and spread a thick pile of papers next to the empty lunch tray. “I don’t know why they sent me to do this. Fortunately, there’s little red flags next to everything you have to sign, so it should be pretty clear.”

“Discharge?” Sheppard asked, even though he already knew.

O’Neill looked up, a little surprised. “Well, yeah.”

“Sir, I have six years left. I just re-upped.”

“Well, yeah,” O’Neill said again, now just confused. “Colonel, you can’t get near the ‘Gate without going into a coma.”

Sheppard straightened up. “General, I was in the Air Force for two decades before I knew the ‘Gate existed.”

O’Neill put down the cover sheet and folded his hands on top of it. He tilted his head to the left. “Oh.”

~

It was a lot easier than he thought it would be. Maybe O’Neill greased the gears a little, or maybe the newspapers piling up in his room screaming out about diminishing recruitment success had more to do with it. Either way, the Air Force was okay with keeping him.

It felt different. He had to get recertified in everything, after nine doctors signed off on letting him get back to active duty. Orders came in sending him to Moody. It wasn’t actually anything new. It was just…typical. There wasn’t anything special about an Air Force pilot getting some refreshers in flying.

Before he was discharged from the hospital, three crates showed up in his room with a ‘lost in transit’ note from the Personnel department. His stuff from Atlantis.  Or some of it, since he’d had more than would fit in just those boxes. Either it’d been stolen while languishing in transit, or it hadn’t all been packed. Maybe Rodney had decided to help himself. Or Ronon. Teyla probably was too good to scavenge. It didn’t really matter. He didn’t open anything, just found the proper forms to send it all to the storage facility that was still holding everything he’d owned from his last deployment. He hadn’t seen any of it in, geez, a very long time now.

Moody was okay. It was somewhere in Georgia, and it was hot as ever-loving fuck. He had officer’s housing on base and he kept the AC blasting so high fuses kept blowing. He only tried to adjust the temperature with his mind a couple of times. Mostly, he’d gotten over trying to do that in the hospital. It never worked. Also, it made him feel crazy.

He thought it might happen in the air, and then he really would be crazy and also probably dead. But it was pretty hard to mistake any of the aircraft he was relearning with the puddlejumpers. He kind of missed the effortless connection, but at the same time flying without internal dampeners was awesome. The feeling of speed was the whole reason he’d ever joined the Air Force. He focused on that. Besides, while maybe not up to Ancient standards, aircraft technology had gotten much cooler in recent years. Some of that was probably R & D from Pegasus technology. And then he had to stop thinking along those lines.

It turned out Sheppard probably would have been more successful in the Air Force if they’d made him a colonel immediately. He seemed to get along a lot better now that he didn’t quite have so many superiors. It did take a little bit of getting used to the stricter military structure, but then again he’d never been very good at it. Still, since it seemed pretty unlikely that he’d be assigned to another top secret project based solely on genetic qualifications, he put a lot of effort into not being a dick.

Evidently he managed not to piss anyone in charge off, because he passed the training and got orders to ship out of Moody with the 347th Rescue Group when they deployed to Afghanistan.

He’d known it was coming. There really hadn’t been too many options. Either he’d be drummed out for being the obnoxious weirdo who’d nearly died from circumstances that were top secret – and sounded really dubious to people who did know about the Stargate program, actually – or he’d actually get a real assignment. Maybe there was a third option where he got a cushy desk job at Hickham in Hawaii, but he wasn’t well-behaved enough to get that kind of prize and he didn’t want to fly a desk.

They gave him a bunch of kids – no, seriously kids that were younger than Ford had ever been. Ramirez, Jones, Bartlett, and Dexter.  Ramirez was about five and a half-feet tall  with red hair and red freckles. Sheppard had a hell of a time remembering his name because he looked like he should trade surnames with Dexter, who had three Mexican grandparents and totally looked like a “Ramirez”. Jones was tall and dark, and kind of reminded Sheppard of Ronon, if Ronon had grown up in the bayou and could be held down while his hair was chopped off. Sheppard might have been a dick to Jones, and he felt bad about that.

Bartlett was a major and this was his third trip to Afghanistan.  He took one look at Sheppard, wanted to know if he’d ever been there before, and then more or less directly asked if he was going to have some old man PTSD freak out when he saw sand. Sheppard could appreciate his honesty and promised that wasn’t likely. He did, however, continue to be a complete and irrational asshole to Jones because he had no right to look so familiar. Jones took it well, which did not help.

Afghanistan was still Afghanistan. Sheppard didn’t know if that said more about the country or more about the continuity of U.S. military operations in the region. The multinational force was kind of comforting. He mostly saw British troops, and he even heard rumors one of the princes had been secretly deployed. He asked one of the female medics with the Royal Marines and she said yes, but it wasn’t the cute one.

Her name was Mary, she had red hair, and she was, actually, the cute one. They totally weren’t supposed to hook up, but Sheppard took a page from the old book where he didn’t care what the military did to him, and let her seduce him in the back of her barracks.

He stopped thinking about Atlantis. As much as he’d ever allowed himself to, he stopped completely now. He couldn’t think about people he would never see again if it distracted him from his squad. Bartlett said the missions were nothing compared to the ones from his first two deployments, which Sheppard believed. There was a lot of down time, and in between ops he would covertly track Mary down.

There might have been fewer Taliban, but the ones that were left were still assholes. One got a hold of a rocket launcher and took Sheppard’s Apache out of the sky. They’d been trying to rescue four Marines cornered in a village that had suddenly turned into Taliban-palooza.

Sheppard saw Bartlett haul Ramirez up and jump free, and Dexter followed. He didn’t see Jones, and the next thing he knew he was lying on the ground and Jones was sitting on him. He was pressing down with both hands, right above his hip bone, and it really hurt. Sheppard could feel the liquid heat coating his belly, knew what Jones was trying to do.

“Sorry I was a dick,” he said, and Jones grunted. He probably couldn’t hear Sheppard over the weapons fire.

Mary showed up with her Royal Marines and took over for Jones. Sheppard smiled up at her, and passed out.

He woke up a couple of times in the Army hospital near Kandahar. His gut was full of staples. Bartlett stuck around long enough to tell him everyone else was intact and breathing, and say Sheppard was on his way to Germany. The hospital in Heidelburg was really nice. Sheppard had been there once before, the last time he’d left Afghanistan. He could appreciate symmetry, but he’d also spent the majority of the last years in some kind of hospital, and the thought of another one absolutely sucked.

There was no expectation that’d he’d die this time. It meant the doctors were brusquer and less attentive. All he had was a through and through bullet wound that hadn’t nicked anything all that important. He’d also broken his leg, something no one had even noticed ‘til they tried to get him up after surgery. They slapped some plaster on it and went to deal with soldiers who no longer had legs.

There was also no reason to mourn this time. He’d liked his squad well enough, even if Bartlett had too much attitude, and even if Jones had an unhealthy tolerance for being treated like crap. He’d be sent stateside to heal up and then he could go back. He was lucky the gut shot wasn’t worse, lucky the Apache hadn’t landed on top of him. Sheppard missed Mary. He missed her, and he felt vaguely guilty that he seemed to be missing the distraction she provided maybe a little bit more than the actual woman.

He stayed in the hospital a few weeks, then got kicked once he could get up and handle crutches. They put him up in temporary quarters on base. He didn’t have anything to do besides hobble around and spend money on German beer. They had him scheduled on a flight out at the end of the month. Unfortunately, before that month was up, he got a roommate.  Roger was a Texan captain going home because of undiagnosed gastrointestinal problems. Among other things, he had to have his gallbladder removed. As consequence, he wasn’t allowed to drink and he was really, really pissed off about it. Sheppard started staying out more and avoiding his quarters. He only had a few weeks left, anyway.

One night when Sheppard got back, Roger said he’d missed a visitor. Since Sheppard wasn’t sure he even knew anyone on this continent, that was odd.

“Guy was kind of round,” Roger said. “Definitely a civilian, I don’t know how he got on base. He was a dick. Asked for you and when I said you weren’t here he started yelling.”

“Get a name?” asked Sheppard, since that description was utterly unhelpful.

“Yeah,” Roger said. “He made me write it down, made sure I got his title, too. Dr. Rodney McKay. You know him?”

Roger flipped a post-it note at him, and Sheppard was so stunned it bounced right off his chest and dropped to the floor.

The post-it note had the name, a telephone number, and the name of a hotel near the base. Sheppard had looked into staying there when Roger had first shown up, but it was too pricey.

Sheppard almost didn’t call. His impulse was to crumple the paper up and go to bed. He hadn’t seen Rodney McKay in as long as he’d been dedicating himself to not thinking about Atlantis.

“He said he’d come back tomorrow,” Roger added.

That made Sheppard call. He didn’t know what Rodney wanted, but he didn’t want to have the conversation in the stupid cramped quarters with Roger sitting right there. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he locked himself in the bathroom and dialed the number.

Rodney didn’t answer. The voicemail picked up and Rodney’s voice recording blared loudly. The message was typically Rodney: harried, self-important, and so long-winded the system cut him off in the middle of a sentence. It was strange to hear him again.

“This is Sheppard,” he said. “I can meet you in the hotel bar tomorrow at four o’clock.” He hung up, aware that his message had probably sounded terse and unfriendly. There wasn’t really anything he could do about that, so he just went to bed.  He didn’t sleep well, and for the first time in ages he dreamt of going through the ‘Gate wormhole.

Getting to the hotel turned out to be a giant pain in the ass. He had to catch a cab from the base, and crutching to the taxi stand made his entire torso ache. The hotel, of course, had a huge set of stairs leading up to the door. So by the time he actually made it to the bar, the only thing on his mind was how much he hated the crutches and stupid stair-loving architects.

McKay was already there, seated in a booth and nursing a beer. He made an aborted move to rise, but then sat back down and waited for Sheppard to make his way over to the table. He slid in across from McKay, propping his crutches up against the nearest wall.

“Hi,” he said.

McKay looked the same. Maybe a little less hair, but totally the same.

“Do you not know how to use a computer?” McKay growled. He did it softly, which showed some development of restraint. “Do you not know how to use the U.S. Postal service? What about carrier pigeons? Huh? Do you have any idea how hard it was to contact you? I have been e-mailing you for two fucking years – ” his voice was rising to a much more familiar decibel level.

“Shhh,” Sheppard interrupted, as one of the barmaids looked up sharply. He gave her a peaceful wave. “I don’t even have an e-mail address, McKay, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Immediately, McKay opened his mouth again. “Wait! Look…I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch. I was out of it for a really long time and then I was kind of too pissed off to want to deal with any of it. Okay?”

McKay paused. He squinted for a second. “I didn’t think you were going to apologize,” he said, finally. “I had lots more to say about that.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Sheppard admitted, “but I did. So drop it, okay?”

“Maybe,” McKay said. He looked a little deflated. Sheppard thought maybe he’d thwarted a really long, prepared speech. “What’s with the crutches?”

“I fell out of a helicopter and landed on a bullet,” Sheppard said, more or less truthfully.

“Where?”

“Afghanistan,” Sheppard said, and McKay’s mouth fell open.

“What?”

“There’s a war,” Sheppard said. “Here, too, McKay. Actually, the Canadians are in it, too.”

“I know that,” McKay snapped. “I just…didn’t think they’d…” Sheppard must have gone stiff, because abruptly McKay shut up. “Nevermind,” he said. “I don’t want to fight about stupi-…about anything, okay? There’s more important stuff.” His lips sealed into a thin, serious line.

McKay censoring himself, McKay backing down from starting a completely unwinnable argument. That was new and different. “What?” Sheppard asked.

“How much do you know?” McKay asked. “About what happened after you left?” He sounded downright suspicious.

“Nothing,” Sheppard said. “I wasn’t told anything. I didn’t ask. Why?” A vague sense of worry was filling his belly. “Did someone –”

“Elizabeth died,” McKay interrupted. “Replicators.”

“Oh.” The worry turned into a gut punch.

“I’m sorry,” McKay said, shifting in his seat. “It was maybe half a year after you left.”

“Oh,” Sheppard said, again.

“Yeah.” McKay looked at the tabletop. “Want a drink?”

“No,” he said. That wasn’t going to help.

“You don’t know anything that’s happened?” McKay continued.

“No.”

“Okay,” McKay said. “Well, it’s all bad news. I’m sorry. I did try to tell you. Speaking of which, I violated the non-disclosure clause to someone in the Air Force named J. Sheppard.”

“ _Rodney_ -”

“The project was scrapped,” McKay said. He leaned closer. “After Elizabeth, we had Sam Carter and then an IOA guy in charge. Everything was going to hell and the IOA decided that rather than protecting their interests we were only going around the galaxy poking angry things with sticks. They recalled the entire mission about a year ago.”

“Atlantis,” Sheppard whispered.

“Sunk,” McKay replied. “Not destroyed. I wouldn’t let them. It’s sunk. Just like we found her, more or less.” He sounded as pained as Sheppard felt.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” McKay said. “Me too.”

“That’s why you’re here?” Sheppard said. “To tell me that?”

“No,” McKay said. “I’m here because I need your help.”

“Rodney,” Sheppard said, raising a hand to his temple like the man had any idea what kind of headaches he’d had. “I can’t go near the ‘Gate…”

“No,” McKay said. “It’s not that. I resigned, by the way. I can’t go near the ‘Gate either.”

“You _resigned_? Why?”

“The IOA are fascist bastards,” McKay said, crisply. “I didn’t want them to be able to touch me and I sure as hell won’t work for them. I work for an independent contractor now. I make lots more money.”

“Rodney, what happened?”

McKay took a deep breath. He picked up his beer and drank some. He looked angrier than Sheppard had ever seen him. “The IOA took Teyla and Ronon back with us.”

“They came with?” Sheppard said. He almost started to look around the room, half expecting Teyla to pop up from behind the bar.

“No,” Rodney said. “I said _took_. They didn’t want to come. The IOA judged them both security risks and brought them back as prisoners.”

Shock streaked through Sheppard. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” McKay rested his head in his hands. “You have no idea.”

“Yeah, I’ll help.” Sheppard said. “Whatever it takes. Whenever. Wherever.”

McKay let out a soft breath. “Okay. Good.”

“Where are they being held?”

“Story’s not done,” McKay said. “I have Teyla. I got her out. It wasn’t that hard. She’s – you know how she is.”

Of course Sheppard knew. It’s Teyla.

“It wasn’t that hard.” McKay gestured with his left hand, something glittering under the dim booth’s light. “We said we were married.”

Sheppard’s mouth went open involuntarily.

“Said the records were, obviously, a little wet. But that made her a Canadian national at least, and a U.S. permanent resident at most, so I got her out.”

“Good,” Sheppard said, ignoring the shock. “Good thinking. That was smart.”

“We did it, actually,” McKay said. “Legally, with all the paperwork so no one can ever touch her again.”

“Good,” Sheppard said.

“You were invited to the wedding,” McKay said. “I don’t know where it went, but she sent one.”  
  
“P.O. Box I haven't checked in six years,” Sheppard answered.

“We tried to do the same thing with Ronon,” McKay continued. “Not me, obviously. We tried Keller. It didn’t work. Ronon probably didn’t cooperate. Keller’s a shitty actress. The IOA…he…they…I…”

McKay became so flustered he had to stop talking. He took a deep drink of his beer and scratched at his neck. “Last I heard they had him locked up in Cheyenne.”

“We’ll get him out.” Sheppard said, flatly.

“He got himself out.” McKay retorted. “I think Sam might have helped. I don’t know.”

“I don’t understand.”

McKay stared at him over the rim of his glass. “Ronon Dex has been at large on this planet for about three months. John, he’s running again.” He threw one hand out helplessly into the air. “He hasn’t tried to contact me or Teyla. He’s out there, somewhere, and he won’t come in for us. But I think he will for you.”

They scheduled their flight back to the United States for three days later. Sheppard could have gone on the military plane at the end of the month, but that was weeks away. McKay had the cash, and he was insistent that he and Sheppard stay together.

“Last time you went some place by yourself,” he griped, “I didn’t see you for two years.”

“I’m sorry, Rodney.”

McKay continued to grumble, even as he put one arm around Sheppard’s back in the guise of helping him to his crutches. “Just don’t do it again, okay?”

Sheppard learned more on the flight home. McKay wouldn’t stop twisting his wedding band, and finally the rest came out.

Ronon hadn’t taken it well when Sheppard had to leave Atlantis. It was kind of flattering, but not that surprising. He’d suspected for a while that Ronon’s loyalty lay in specific people – himself and Teyla, chiefly. That was why Teyla had stayed behind. She didn’t want to be gone, across the planet if Ronon came looking for her.

He’d hurt the security team that had taken him and Teyla into custody – duh. No one should have been surprised by that. He hadn’t gotten any better behaved while in custody.  
  
“They put a subdermal transmitter in him,” McKay said, scowling.

Rage boiled steadily in Sheppard’s gut. He knew why the IOA wouldn’t consider it a big deal, because they didn’t know Ronon. Weir had never insisted on that protocol with Ronon. No one would have, if they knew the story.

“They also shaved his head,” McKay said. “Because he was hiding knives in his hair, I guess.” Sheppard thought he could see his eyes glittering.

“We’ll find him,” he said.

Getting off the plane with the crutches and luggage was something of an ordeal. McKay was cranky and uncaffeinated, and Sheppard was sore and stiff. They’d arranged to land in Texas, right outside the radius in which the distance to an active Stargate might send Sheppard into seizures. He asked McKay how Teyla would be able to reach them at the airport on such short notice.

“We live here,” McKay said. “She just has to drive to the airport and not kill anyone on her way. She’s a terrible driver.”

“Why do you live here and not Colorado?” Sheppard asked.

McKay shrugged. “No reason. Wouldn’t want you to go comatose in my house.”

The airport was crowded. McKay cleared a path for Sheppard with lots of blatant shoving as they disembarked. He started peering around the families gathered in baggage claim, looking for Teyla.

Sheppard didn’t recognize her at first. He’d never looked for her like this, in a building that had more people than most Pegasus planets had populace. He felt stifled by all the bodies; he couldn’t imagine what she thought of it. He’d also never seen her dressed like an American. Of course she wouldn’t be wearing BDU’s or Athosian garments. He looked right past the petite woman in jeans and an orange sweater. She looked too small, too unobtrusive.

“Teyla!” Rodney called, and then she was moving forwards.  
  
Sheppard went towards her. The noisy airport slipped away; he dropped one of his crutches and might have fallen if she hadn’t been there.  Her hands were around his shoulders and head, pulling his face to hers. He didn’t even notice if anyone stared at the Athosian greeting. Teyla’s forehead was warm against his. He let her stay there for as long as she needed, and then he did what he needed and pulled her into a complete embrace, burying his head on her shoulder.

“Teyla,” he said into her hair, and his voice sounded thick. “I’m sorry.”

“We are together now,” she said. “That is what matters.”

“Ronon,” he said, and his breathing actually hitched.

“We will all be together,” she said. “I know it.”

He held her tighter, until McKay moved in to slip the crutch back under Sheppard’s arm. And then he grabbed him too, ignoring his squeal, and held them both.

 

 

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